


In which the coffin is for John, not Molly

by Ascent_to_insignificance



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Coffin Scene, Fix-It, M/M, Phone scene, The Final Problem, s4, s4e3, season 4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-18
Updated: 2017-04-18
Packaged: 2018-10-20 15:13:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10665282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ascent_to_insignificance/pseuds/Ascent_to_insignificance
Summary: A fix-it for the 'I love you' scene which frustrated every Johnlocker





	In which the coffin is for John, not Molly

The phone cuts off.  
"Now, back to the matter at hand," Eurus cuts in, "Coffin. Problem: someone is about to die. It will be, as I understand it, a tragedy." Her voice is without emotion, without empathy. "So many days not lived. So many words not said. Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera, etcetera-"  
"Yes. Yes. And this, I presume, will be their coffin," Sherlock interrupts, speaking quickly, the stress slipping out into his fast pacing, the way his hands don't stop moving. John clenches and unclenches his fists in an attempt to release pent up energy, stress.

"Whose coffin, Sherlock?" Eurus says, nonchalant. "Please, start your deductions. I will apply some context in a moment."

Sherlock takes a breath and John mirrors him.  
Then, as prompted, he begins his deductions.

"Well, allowing for the entirely pointless courtesy of headroom, I'd say this coffin is intended for someone of about five foot four," Sherlock says, and if it weren't for the situation, John might've found this display of intellect attractive. "Makes it more likely to be a woman."

"Or a child," John volunteers, hoping to be useful, to prove his value.

But Sherlock quickly dismisses his point. "A child's coffin would be more expensive. This is in the lower price range, but still best available in that bracket."

"A lonely night on Google," John comments, mostly to himself.

"This is a practical an informed choice. Balance of probability suggests this is for an unmarried woman, distant from her close relatives. That much is suggests by the economy of choice. Acquainted with the process of death, but unsentimental about the necessity of disposal. Also the lining of the coffin-"

"Yes, very good," Mycroft interjects, "but Sherlock, we could just look at the name on the lid."

John moves closer to the lid, to where the plaque is no longer rendered illegible by light reflecti-

I love you

His mouth is suddenly dry, and he swallows, but it probably doesn't mean what he thinks it means- no, he's just making assumptions. Loads of people fit the description. No.  
Neither Sherlock not Mycroft seem to have noticed his moment.

"Only it isn't a name," Mycroft continues.

John swallows again, forcing his words to come out clearly. "So, it's for somebody who loves somebody," he says.

"It's for somebody who loves Sherlock," Mycroft says and John's insides freeze, heart coming to what feels like a staccato stop and then he remembers how to breathe again.  
Sherlock had said the headroom was a pointless courtesy - for someone practical about death, for someone like him, it might be foregone altogether. Unmarried, distant from family, practical, unsentimental. It fits.  
John forces himself back to the moment.  
"...who loves you?" Mycroft continues, "I'm assuming it's not a long list."

There is a cackle of mirthless laughter.  
"John's worked it out, Sherlock," she says, "Now, John, don't help him. I want to see how long it takes."

Sherlock looks at John and John can see his blue eyes wide with panic. And he still doesn't know, hasn't guessed.

Mycroft sighs. "Oh."

Sherlock whirls. "Who? Who is it?" he demands.

"Now, now, Sherlock," Eurus taunts, "You always were the slow one. You've made an assumption. John, do tell him what he's assumed and see if he can work from there."

John's lips are dry. His hands are shaking behind his back. He wasn't meant to know, not like this.  
He swallows.

"You've assumed it's a woman," he chokes out.

"It's a man?" Sherlock asks, and John watches as the pieces fall into place. He expects betrayal, anger, distaste, pity, because Sherlock had always been married to his work - he had no room for romantic entanglements, least of all with a friend he'd thought he could trust.

What John didn't expect was the sudden vulnerability, tenderness -and love?- present on his face.

"Say it." The sharp tone from the speakers cuts through the silence in the room like shattering glass.

John closes his eyes. 

He breathes. 

He speaks.  
"I love you, Sherlock," he says.


End file.
